Page 93 of Bitten & Burned
“Oh… well, what are you waiting for?” I asked.
“Permission…”
“Oh, sorry. Yes. Yes, Anton, please ruin my underthings.”
“You’re going to regret giving me that kind of encouragement…” he murmured.
Rrrriip!
I gasped at the sudden sound, staring at the tattered remains of my plain cotton slip shorts dangling from his hand like a trophy. He grinned up at me, wicked.
The ruined fabric hit the floor with a careless flick, and then he leaned closer, voice low and conspiratorial. “I’m buying you lace next time. Easier to tear off in a hurry.”
I laughed, and he beamed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my jaw. “Gods, I love that sound… but not nearly as much as I’m going to love how you taste…”
Anton ducked his head down, licking a long stripe along myslit. Once. Twice. Licking me open, savoring me. I was already trembling by the time he touched my clit.
His tongue circled once. Twice. A third time—before flattening wide, catching my clit with a deep stroke that made me groan.
“Anton—” I moaned, but whatever I was going to say dissolved on my tongue when he closed his lips around me and sucked.
Hard.
Heat shot through me, the tug of his mouth sparking low in my belly. My thighs trembled against his shoulders.
A strangled sound tore out of me as I arched off the bed. He was always two steps ahead, one hand splayed over my belly, holding me down, while the other was hooked around my thigh, as if it were stabilizing him.
Hells, it might have been.
Because the way he moaned as if he were the one coming undone, the way he devoured me like I was the only thing that had ever mattered… he sucked and licked and nuzzled me until I fell apart.
Release crashed through me, and for a second, I was almost disappointed—because I thought that meant he’d stop.
Except he didn’t. He kept going, his fingers helping me along toward a second and a third, wringing me out completely.
The silk beneath me felt damp with sweat, and his relentless tongue dragged me higher, wringing sound after sound out of me.
I was certain I wasn’t speaking words, just mumbling incoherently as he pushed up from between my legs—his mouth and chin glistening with me, and altogether too proud of himself.
“Gods, Rowena—you taste like nectar,” he groaned, collapsing on the pillow beside me.
I couldn’t move. Too blissed out and overstimulated.
I tried, though. Tried to roll and curl up beside him.
He chuckled and helped, pressing a kiss to my head like he hadn’t just eaten me for a three-course dinner. The faint rasp ofhis stubble scratched at my scalp, grounding me in the quiet after the storm. I curled into him, still trembling.
“Still with me?” he asked, voice thick and full of smug affection.
“Barely,” I murmured. “I might need a minute…”
“Take as long as you need. Believe me, I’ll be here.”
“You ruined me.”
“Good,” he stroked my hair. “That was the plan.”
“Anton?”
